


Run my river dry

by Builder



Series: Powers/No Powers Choose-Your-Own-Adventure [39]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, Depression, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, POV Bucky Barnes, Sickfic, Suicidal Thoughts, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-26
Updated: 2021-01-26
Packaged: 2021-03-12 01:07:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29001954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Builder/pseuds/Builder
Summary: Bucky doesn’t say goodbye when Steve leaves. Instead he says, “I’ll be fine.” He doesn’t wait for Steve to ask the question. They’re too deep into the valley of habit for it to matter.Steve just nods and heads for the door. “Sure you will,” he says, a slight sigh in his voice. Bucky can’t tell if he’s being truthful or a little sarcastic. His ears have gotten bad at telling the difference, but it’s not like it matters. Day in and day out, it’s all the same. Steve goes to work, and Bucky stays home. Maybe eats breakfast, maybe doesn’t. Maybe tosses it back up. Then he goes back to bed and wishes he doesn’t exist.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Series: Powers/No Powers Choose-Your-Own-Adventure [39]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/760377
Comments: 3
Kudos: 23





	Run my river dry

**Author's Note:**

> A commission fic for Ketturukka. Find me on Tumblr @builder051

Bucky doesn’t say goodbye when Steve leaves. Instead he says, “I’ll be fine.” He doesn’t wait for Steve to ask the question. They’re too deep into the valley of habit for it to matter.

Steve just nods and heads for the door. “Sure you will,” he says, a slight sigh in his voice. Bucky can’t tell if he’s being truthful or a little sarcastic. His ears have gotten bad at telling the difference, but it’s not like it matters. Day in and day out, it’s all the same. Steve goes to work, and Bucky stays home. Maybe eats breakfast, maybe doesn’t. Maybe tosses it back up. Then he goes back to bed and wishes he doesn’t exist.

As soon as Steve closes the door, Bucky lets out the breath he didn’t realize was bated as he held it deep down in his throat. He pulls it in and out for a moment, almost panting, until a wave of lightheadedness passes. It’s stupid, because he’s sitting down, but Bucky hasn’t been feeling well lately. He hasn’t been doing well.

There are meds upstairs, good ones. Bucky knows this because he happened to wake up, sweating and shaking, the night Steve moved them from the bathroom cabinet to the linen closet. He’d intended to go hang his head over the toilet for a minute and see if it made him feel better, but the sight of Steve with a half-dozen pill bottles in his hands had stopped Bucky in his tracks.

Steve had been forced to explain, and Bucky forced to listen. “It’s just to be safe, Buck,” he’d said, showing him the shiny new doorknob and the key he had on a chain around his neck. “And it’s not forever.”

Bucky knows the setup is supposed to be reassuring, to let him know Steve cares about him, and that he cares that Bucky’s safe from himself. He can’t help feeling like a toddler, though, stripped of autonomy and any semblance of self-care.

Steve doesn’t know it, but Bucky fosters a mild obsession with the linen closet and its perpetually locked door. He only lets it show when Steve’s not around, detouring to the downstairs bathroom or borrowing blankets from the back of the sofa just so he’ll have a reason to pass it and try his luck at opening it.

It never budges, of course, for Steve’s diligent about Bucky’s care and upkeep, or maybe that of the house. He parcels out meds at scheduled times, and that’s all. He can occasionally be wheedled into a Tylenol here or there when a headache comes on, but nothing unless Bucky’s symptomatic. He’s good that way. Though from Bucky’s view, it’s more of a negative than a positive.

When Steve’s bike leaves the driveway and buzzes off down the road, Bucky returns his never-filled coffee mug to the cabinet, then pulls his hoodie more tightly around his body. He’s never warm anymore. Not even when under the pile of blankets in the bedroom. It’s as close as he can get, though, so Bucky turns toward the stairs and starts the trudge upward, grasping the railing and dragging his way.

At the top of the steps, Bucky looks to the bathroom, considering whether a detour is worth it. He’s had nothing so far today, so there’s nothing to piss out or vomit up; his churning stomach is just a farce.

Across the short hall is the linen closet, the more enticing option. Bucky blinks at the gleaming silver door handle, takes a slow breath, then crosses to it in two shaky steps.

He tries not to get his hopes up, or at least he wouldn’t if he had any hope in him to force up to the surface and into his chest cavity along with his heavily beating heart. Whether from nerves or some perverse kind of excitement Bucky knows not, but the hammering behind his ribcage gives him something else to focus on at least.

With his eyes locked onto the door handle, Bucky grips the cold metal in his fist and makes an attempt at turning it. It’s lackluster and light, but to his utter shock, that’s all that’s required to make it turn. The door creaks open as Bucky pulls, feeling as guilty as he does eager.

He’s had nary a glance inside the linen cabinet since Steve’s redone it, so the change is somewhat shocking. The upper shelves remain crammed with sheets and towels, but the lower two are now overtaken with rows of pill bottles. Bucky’s surprised to see they have so many medications on hand, and he wonders how they accumulated. Is it normal for a household to have so many drugs?

Bucky sinks to his knees and continues to survey the collection. He realizes only half or so are prescriptions, and that makes him feel a little better. But then again, if Steve doesn’t trust him enough to be around the ibuprofen and Sudafed, what does that say about his current state of mind? Or Steve’s perception of it? An ache of remorseful desire squirms at the bottom of Bucky’s gut, and he reaches toward the grouping of over-the-counters, caressing their lids with one finger.

Most of the bottles have safety lids locked in place, effectively keeping Bucky out. Steve’s gummy vitamins and caffeine supplements have regular screw-off tops, which Bucky supposes he can open with his singular hand, but overdosing on those probably wouldn’t induce anything but an episode of paranoia and vomiting. Bucky scoffs and decides it’s not worth the trouble.

He moves his fingers forward and scans through the rest of the bottles, these glowing orange behind their large typewritten labels. Bucky squints at the text, trying to recall which of the long words is meant to treat which ailment. He can’t, but he does recognize the name of his psychiatrist at the top of each label, representing tiny blows to his sense of self as he taps the locked lids.

He’s broken. With every parceled out dose, Steve tries to fix him. The meds aren’t enough, though. The combination is wrong, or perhaps the dosages are too low. Things aren’t working. Bucky wishes he could take matters into his own hand and just purge himself from his place on this earth.

So why doesn’t he? Bucky runs his knuckles along the fronts of the row of bottles, rattling them slightly until he stops on one at random. He tilts his head as he realizes its lid is slightly askew, the cap set just barely off its threads.

Bucky’s heart begins to pound in his chest, and his palm goes sweaty. He lets out a shaky breath as he pulls the bottle forward out of the row and grasps it around the neck, holding it up so he can examine it properly.

Yes, the cap is definitely presenting a problem. Or, rather, an opportunity. Bucky’s shoulders shudder with anticipatory excitement as he plants the bottle between his knees and inserts his fingernails below the ridge of the cap. He digs in and gives it a hard twist, and, to his utter astonishment, the flat white lid comes off in his hand.

“The…?” Bucky murmurs, his breath stopping any further words short in his throat. His heart flutters with a sudden burst of elation, of happiness, but also with tremendous guilt over what he’s about to do. For that is what he’s about to do, isn’t it? He can’t turn back now, not after he’s gotten this far.

Bucky gulps, tasting bitterness in the back of his throat. Then he shakily raises the bottle of pills to his mouth and tips it back as if he’s taking a shot of whiskey.

Bucky recalls the first time he took a shot, sitting at the bar with Steve at his side. He’d wrinkled his nose and tried not to vomit as he’d swallowed down the stuff, feeling Steve’s slightly sloppy hand patting him hard on the back. There’s no encouragement this time; if Steve saw what he was doing, he’d certainly snatch the bottle away. But Bucky shuts his eyes hard and shoves the memory away, then takes the softly coated pills on his tongue and tries to swallow.

The capsules stick to the inside of Bucky’s dry throat, but he forces them down with a swish of spittle that tastes sour and chemical all at once. Almost immediately he feels his esophagus try to close up, but he clears his throat with a cough and pours more pills down, now emptying more than half the bottle.

A dizzying feeling starts to rise from Bucky’s core. It’s too early for the medication to be taking effect, so it must be something psychosomatic. Something emotional. Bucky’s head spins, and he tips sideways to rest it against the doorframe of the linen closet. It takes a moment for him to get his bearings again, and when he does, a thin sheen of sweat has gathered on his brow. He takes another breath, swallowing the thick saliva that coats the pills threatening to rise back up in his throat, and raises the bottle to his lips again.

It takes three tries to get the entire bottle down, and twice Bucky belches a couple of capsules back up into his mouth. He re-swallows them, though, determined to follow through with his choice. The tremor running through him grows in intensity, and he has to drop to lie on his stomach to keep his arm and legs from giving out.

Once Bucky’s finished the bottle, he continues gulping at the bitter flavor that covers his tongue and throat. It proliferates through his mouth, spreading with the saliva washing over his teeth and down toward his stomach.

Time takes on an odd texture, ebbing and flowing and moving in fits and starts. At first Bucky feels fine, save the tremor that prickles through his skin and the vertigo that plays around his ears.

Then, all of a sudden, a darkness descends upon him. Bucky’s vision drops to a dull blur and a ringing grows in his ears. A feeling of raw sickness creeps from his stomach to his throat, making him gulp down warm bitter wetness.

If this is death, Bucky thinks, it seems slow coming and not much distinguished from nightmarish sessions of illness he’s experienced before. It’s not that ne necessarily thought his erasure from the earth would be an easy experience, but he didn’t think it would be horrific, considering the method he’d chosen for his departure.

A metallic taste grows in between the gumlines behind Bucky’s teeth, and he begins to cringe involuntarily. He feels his eyes roll up in his head, and his head jerks sideways, cricking his neck in painful spasms.

Bucky’s jaw opens in a retch, and foamy saliva forces itself through the gaps in his teeth. An involuntary inhalation brings a choking feeling, and he sputters and vomits down the front of his shirt. The warm wetness feels odd, and he wonders for a moment why it seems to reach down his legs as well. Then he slowly realizes the seizure’s released his bladder muscles as well.

There’s no time for shame, for the world flickers before Bucky’s eyes. Stars dance in the corners of his visual field, threatening to take over everything he sees. Bucky pulls in his breath, feeling strings of mucous drag across the back of his tongue and prepare to choke him once they have their chance. It barely matters now, though. Bucky’s exhausted. He’s ready.

The sound of a door squeaking on its hinges, ten slamming against air pressure interrupts the quiet rhythm of Bucky’s heart beating in his ears. His breath, which has been slowing, catches in his chest and speeds up, grabbing a flicker of moisture that makes him sputter and cough. Unable to turn himself onto his side, Bucky lays there as a tiny spurt of liquid rises from his throat and forces itself between his gently parted lips.

“Hey, Buck?” Steve’s voice calls.

Bucky wonders if he’s hallucinating. That would make the most sense. The pills, whatever he took, might initiate a high before they kill him. They might make him hear voices, see things. Bucky opens his eyes and blinks a few times, just in case there are some visual illusions he’s missing. He only sees the ceiling, though, partially obscured in blotchy patches of yellow and lavender aura.

“St…?” Bucky manages to cough out. It’s not loud enough to be heard, but the voice downstairs continues in an inexact reply.

“I forgot my coffee, didn’t pack any lunch. And I was kinda, um, worried about you…”

_Come upstairs_ , Bucky thinks. _Or, really, don’t come upstairs. Just go…_

“Buck?” Steve’s boots move through the entryway and into the kitchen. “Did you go up to bed?”

Bucky’s heart beats hard and slow, a sure sign that he’s losing his strength. He shuts his eyes hard. What if he dies, right now? What if Steve doesn’t get to him on time? Would that be the perfect ending, or the worst? Bucky doesn’t know. And he’s about to run out of time.

“Bucky?” Steve’s heavy footsteps move up toward the stairs.

Bucky bites his lip, tasting the chemical vomit and now a little blood. He prepares for hands on him. His body goes hot, then cold, cold as death, cold as the morgue itself…

“Buck, oh my god.” Steve’s knees hit the ground hard enough to shake the entire house. He plants both hands on Bucky’s chest and starts compressions, tilting his ear toward Bucky’s face to listen for a trace of breath.

Bucky stays still. Not necessarily because he wants to, but because paralysis seems to come upon him, forcing his breath to catch in his throat and his fluttering eyelids to squeeze shut.

Steve continues to move his hands up and down on Bucky’s ribcage, until, all of a sudden, a wash of vomit comes up, thick with not only foam, but also with pill casings and yellow bile. Steve scoops Bucky’s floppy form onto his side, arranging his knees into a recovery position so he won’t fall to his back again.

“Ok, ok, get it up,” Steve murmurs frantically. He percusses Bucky hard between the shoulder blades, forcing more of the frothy vomit up and onto the floor.

“Steve—“ Bucky sputters, reaching for Steve’s sleeve and clinging on. _For dear life_ , he thinks. Is that what he wants?

“Yeah, I’m here.” Steve wraps his arms around Bucky, holding him tightly to his chest, paying no mind to the mess coating his clothing and the floor. “I’ll always be here.”

Bucky rests his chin on Steve’s shoulder, the tremor running through his body again. He’s grateful for Steve to hold him tightly together, lest he ooze out all over his lap.

Steve’s arm shifts, and Bucky sees him pick up the pill bottle from where it’s landed on the floor. He grabs it and squints at the label, then lets out a breath and presses his lips together.

“This is what you took?” Steve asks, his voice devoid of tone. “Is that all?”

Bucky stays silent.

“Buck?”

Tears fill Bucky’s eyes, and he isn’t sure what to say. He needs to tell the truth, of course. But won’t Steve hate him? Won’t he be upset?

“Buck, you have to tell me. So I can help you.”

Help him. Steve wants to help him. Bucky needs help. But does he want it? He isn’t sure. Now’s not the time to decide, though, for there isn’t much of it left.

“Just nod or shake your head, Buck. That’s all you have to do,” Steve says. “I won’t be mad at you, I promise.”

Bucky sobs, and a mouthful of foamy vomit slips from between his lips. Then he slowly moves his head up and down.

“Ok.” Steve pauses for a second. “Ok. We need to go to the hospital.”

Bucky lets out an involuntary high-pitched moan as his eyes flood with fresh tears. He shakes his head so hard it makes him dizzy, the hallucinatory lights and colors dancing around the edges of his visual field.

“We have to,” Steve repeats. “I think you got a lot of it up, but we can’t take any chances.” He looks Bucky up and down. “You’ve gotten really slim lately. I don’t know what max dose you can tolerate before there’s permanent damage. This could stop your heart, Buck, I—“ Steve breaks off, tears filling his eyes as well.

“I don’t wanna go…” Bucky drops his forehead to Steve’s chest, long strings of sour drool dripping from the corners of his mouth into Steve’s lap.

“I’ll try not to let them keep you,” Steve promises. “It’s a… a… poison control problem. You have night terrors and sleepwalk. It’s true enough…” Steve looks at Bucky, as if to test whether the story seems believable.

Bucky has no idea. His head aches, and nausea still crashes in waves against the insides of his body. Only half of what Steve says seems to penetrate the feelings of illness and make it to his brain, which, in turn, seems to be only half in tune with what’s going on around him.

“Do you think you can move?” Steve asks. “We kind of need to go.”

“I…” Bucky swallows the desire to be sick again. “Go now?”

“Yeah, Buck. “ Steve rises to his knees and pulls Bucky up along with him. “I want you to be ok. I need you to be ok.”

“Are…you ok?”

“Buck—That’s—“ Steve shakes his head, then presses his lips together. “No,” he finally says. “And neither are you. But we’re going to work on that. And the first step is to have you come with me. Right now.”

Bucky hesitates. He barely has control over his body, but he can at least maintain some autonomy around his words.

“Unless you want me to call an ambulance?” Steve gives Bucky a hard look, but Bucky sees his lower lip trembling. He sees how hard this must be for him, to come home to see Bucky practically dying in the hallway.

Bucky shakes his head a fraction of an inch to each side, the movement making him sick as well as sad.

Steve sets his jaw, then wraps his arms around Bucky’s waist and drags him to his feet. “We’re going now, ok? We can probably make it as fast as a squad…” His eyes look hopeful. Almost wistful.

He doesn’t know if Steve is stating a fact or gearing himself up for a challenge, but either way, the sick guilt bubbling up in Bucky’s chest presses against the back of his tongue, and it’s all he can do to keep himself from sicking up all over Steve. He lowers his head and forces out a sound that may or may not seal his fate.

“Ok.” Steve nods. He cups Bucky’s cheek and uses his thumb to wipe at a wayward tear. “Come on.”

They slowly move toward the stairs, ignoring the mess in front of the linen closet. Steve doesn’t even bother to close it; Bucky supposes he’ll deal with it later. That they’ll deal with it later. For certainly now they’re in this mess together, and they’ll swim their way out of it together as well.


End file.
